


The Lonely Heaven

by ibo



Category: Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Loneliness, i legit worte this for school
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 06:37:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14373042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ibo/pseuds/ibo
Summary: “‘you tol me that you’ll come for me and you neva came.... you tol me-”





	The Lonely Heaven

The crash of a shot echoed throughout along the winding path of the Salinas River; the combustion sounded on the hillside bank. The scene was bathed in the warm, yellow light of the sun, twinkling on the deep green of the river, as the tall dropping willows dragged on the bank, with the long leaf junctures dragging on the surface of the lazy river. The quiet foliage was intermixed with the startled scutterings of animalia, soft rabbits of stone greys and chestnut browns hopped among the tall grass uphill, the quiet chirpings of the finches scattered into the skies. Along the river was a path weaving through the willows, beaten by the thumps of footsteps. On the other side of the river sat a large sycamore with large dropping limbs that nearly grazed the ground. One branch rested on the grassed plane, its top smoothed by many travelers that came along on this path. An ash pile (rests) among the glen.

Behind the branch, a soft groan sounded. A small rustel within the green brush and a head rose slowly from behind the arm of the sycamore. Large pale eyes peeked around, “George?” the figure quietly quivered, “Geooorge?” 

No response, except for the concerned tweets of the birds, the crunch of the brush, and a strong fast heartbeat. The figure stumbled onto his feet.”I… I ain't gonna cause no mo’ trouble… no mo’ trouble“ repeating that matura the figure dragged, his feet down the path.

At the end of the path, up a hill, there sat a little house. A small chimney rose up from the roof against the clear blue of the sky. Surrounding the hill were emerald green acres and acres of alfalfa and fruit trees. A few cows littered around the opening of a dulled red barn with some chickens pecking at their ankles and rabbit sleeping in the sun. A few scattered with some fearful squawks A small brown and white pup dashed in between cows and trees and wildflowers and rabbits and bounded to the approaching figure. In large hands he cradled the dog into his arms, compulsively stroking the pup’s soft fur. He lumbered into the farmhouse, throwing open the front door. He called again, “George?” Wandering into the house through a kitchen stocked with milk and eggs and vegetables and canned tomatoes and even a bottle of ketchup, he searched around calling more and more frantically. With thunderous footsteps tracing through the ten acres of the land, he told him how this is everything he described and that he could come home. “You tol’ me you that we’d get otta there! You tol’ me that we would ‘ave this little place an’ live on the fatta the lan’!” The calls turned to sobs and then to a quiet whimper of “‘you tol me that you’ll come for me and you neva came.... you tol me-”


End file.
